Chapter Four

"What is he doing here?"

The surprised displeasure in the lion knight's tone had the auburn-haired wolf recoil in disappointment, while his dark-haired counterpart glared. Jaime took a moment to congratulate himself that Lyarra Snow no longer attempted any social graces in his presence. Between the drunken exploits of their first private rendezvous and watching him drool into his white cloak for their second, she hadn't any measure of awe or respect for him at all. There was even an intimacy of sorts between them that Jaime was finding not entirely awful, so he didn't know why she'd bring a chaperone now. The bastard had undressed him with her own two hands; at this point, her modesty wasn't really in question.

Obviously, she had none.

"My brother is here for his lesson." The dark-haired girl turned to a satchel made of burlap- she really ought to have accepted the gold coin, a leather one would be far more fashionable- and took out a tightly wrapped scroll. There was even a bow tied around it with a scarlet ribbon akin to the ones woven through her braid now. He'd have attributed the multiple ribbons to vanity but Jaime was fairly certain her curls were simply that rowdy and unmanageable. "I finished copying the play for you."

"I can see that," Jaime drawled. He felt cheated now. "But I did not agree to this."

The Stark Heir, whom he briefly remembered was named after the king- Robard?- tugged at his sister's sleeve. "Maybe we should leave," he whispered, in a tone that wasn't discrete at all.

"We're not going anywhere," Lyarra spoke archly, responding directly to him. Her eyes blazed with indignation. "Ser Jaime gave me his word and he will be keeping it. Or he will not receive the copy."

"Ser Jaime does not tutor little boys that haven't gotten past wooden swords in the courtyard yet."

"What did Ser Jaime think he would be doing? Sparring with a full-grown man?"

"Ser Jaime does not appreciate this cheek." Catlike eyes turned to the Stark Heir for a moment before dismissing him to return the adorably flushed and puffed up cheeks of the bastard. "We're done here. Hand the copy over and I'll have a gold coin for you tomorrow."

Where he would definitely be helping himself to her plate. Bringing another wolf to their private lesson? What nerve! The Lannister knight felt a sudden and deep upswell of pity for the poor sod to be stuck with this intemperate child for wife.

The male wolf, who had been switching between the two of them with wide eyes, suddenly spoke up. "Lyarra, why are you so familiar with this man?"

"I'm not familiar with him," Lyarra denied, as Jaime tattled that she had lulled him to sleep twice now, after undressing him herself. The bastard girl's cheeks lit up like Yi-tish fireworks at that claim, while her brother's eyes widened to the point that the lion wouldn't have been surprised had they fallen out. The older wolf promptly had his sister dragged a few meters away, their heads huddling together in fiercely spoken hushed tones that led to severe gesticulation and empathetic head shakes from the Snow child. Not at all put out over being bored, the blonde decided to give into his itching fingers. Drifting closer to them slowly, he reached out and gave a forceful tug on the bastard's hair.

'Huh. It's silkier than I thought it would be,' the lion realized, even as the dark-haired girl whirled around with a tiny shriek and kicked his shin. Of course, he had already equipped his greaves, the silver-white armor of the Kingsguard shining brilliantly against his sun-kissed skin, so it barely hurt. A minor sting that was easily eclipsed by the humor of Robb Stark shaking his little sister like a doll for suddenly going mad and attacking the royal family's own personal guards.

"Let her down," Jaime murmured a moment later, as he reached out with one hand to separate the two. The trueborn wolf was pushed away, while the bastard was drawn closer to his own body. A gauntleted hand curled protectively over her shoulder, her body as slender as a willow reed and all the more vulnerable to his eyes. The short display of sympathy on the Lannister's part seemed to have drawn the Stark to a complete and utter standstill, his mouth flapping despite each word dying on his tongue. The lion ignored that to briefly skim his gaze over the fuming she-wolf.

'Why do you do this to me, child?'

Jaime didn't need an answer but as those violet eyes focused on him once more, he decided it was all Arthur Dayne's fault. "I won't thank you for this."

"I don't expect you to," the lion smirked. "Bastards aren't renowned for their manners."

"Nor lions for any kindness," she retorted, shaking his hand free of her person. Stung, Jaime receded and perhaps that flicker of hurt in his eyes caught her attention. Her own features wavered between incense and the compassion that lurked in every sinew of her body. Eventually even Lyarra Snow surrendered to her true nature.

'As I did mine.' The words shouldn't have felt as forlorn as they had. Jaime was a selfish creature. Haunted, bitter, foolish… he hadn't any doubts that he was consigned to an eternity of fire after this, should an afterlife exist. His lifetime had told him that all men were destined for such, even those as honorable as the Sword of the Morning. 'We don't protect her, not from him.'

They'd all burn for their sins eventually. Except the dragons. They acted as they pleased in life for the Gods couldn't punish them in death.

'Dragons won't burn and neither will Lyarra Snow.'

"My brother's nameday will be in a fortnight." The bastard spoke plainly, the soft, melodious voice that had lulled him to sleep had returned. "He admires your swordplay greatly, Ser Jaime. I know that he is a beginner but I would appreciate it, if you would take the time to offer a lesson regardless."

Jaime looked down on her with hooded eyes. "I thought I would be teaching you."

There was a stillness to her body suddenly and a redness creeping up her skin that he attributed to mortification now. "How did you know?" she whispered.

"Don't they teach all ladies to fight in the North?"

There was a minute shake of her head. Then her shoulder blades drew in closer, as though to hide herself. Jaime blinked at that for a moment, wondering what was wrong until he recalled Tyrion in the same position as a child. The bastard was ashamed.

"There's nothing wrong with that," the auburn-haired boy spoke up. He glared at Jaime as fiercely as Jaime had once glared at Lord Westerling when the man lamented Tyrion surviving a severe bout of flu as a child in front of him. Not having any firm opinion of the little wolf before, the lion knight felt a small notch of respect form for the boy.

He needed to leave the North immediately. One wolf pup was the whim of the Gods, a second was marching into dangerous territory.

'How do you handle a frightened and shamed child?'

Suddenly regretful that he hadn't spent any time with his younger cousins- Martyn was a crybaby, he'd definitely have picked tips up from there- Jaime tentatively patted the bastard's head. "It's alright? I still need to pay for that copy. Let's have the sword lesson here."

Lyarra shook her head violently, dislodging his hand again. Jaime inwardly frowned. Where did her sudden vehemence against his touch come from? "You can't- I'm not a boy-"

"I have eyes, Snow, and have, in fact, known that you were a girl all this time," he informed her. "You're also a bastard. Maybe a lady can't be taught the sword but you're not a lady, are you?"

The blonde regretted his words not a moment later. Her eyes widened, her lips trembled and the Stark Heir looked to be contemplating murder. He responded in the only way he could. He doubled down.

"A bastard name isn't going to do you any favors in life, so you may as well take advantage of the little leeway you do have, right? Besides, I need someone to spar against your brother. I'm certainly not doing it. Not only is it so far below my true abilities that I take utmost offense but he won't learn anything faring off against such a superior opponent."

Turning away from them, he headed to the bundle of practice swords- he'd picked several to allow the bastard some variety in balance, length and heft- and selected two appropriate blades. It felt strange to have the chipped wood against his hand again. It had been so long since Jaime held anything other than real steel but these blades had a comfortable enough weight to them. When he looked back at his newfound students, there were two young wolves regarding him with astonishment.

Ignoring Robb Stark entirely, Jaime Lannister focused on the remarkable eyes of Lyarra Snow. They were lighter orbs now, brightened in unexpected emotion that blossomed into warmth. The bastard looked at him as though she hadn't quite seen anyone like him before, similar to but not exactly the way she'd looked upon him the first night, after he'd revealed Aerys' mad wildfire plot. There was a softness there that had him straighten his back and offer a sincere grin of his own.

One that quickly acquired an edge of wickedness.

"Now then," Jaime all but purred. "Let's work you through your paces."

x

Lyarra tucked her body between a spice racket to one side and a tub of freshly peeled potatoes to the other. It was a tight fit, even for someone as small as she was, but the confined space made her feel well-guarded and hidden. In her hands was toasted bread slathered in lingonberry jam, her third piece for the day.

'If only Father could see me now.' An amused quirk of her lips was followed by another rapid bite. Lyarra didn't often have much of an appetite in the mornings… or any other time of day… but she was ravenous now. It probably had something to do with the early morning swordsmanship lesson, her fifth one with Ser Jaime, that had just finished. The other ones had Robb present but he'd overslept today and it'd just been herself and the blonde. 'He'd be surprised my stomach could fit all this.'

Until Ned Stark learned the reason for her hunger, then that surprise would turn to disapproval. Lyarra licked the jam off of her fingers and started work on a fourth piece as she contemplated it. Her actions thus far hadn't been within the bounds of propriety. She didn't begrudge her first meeting- it wouldn't have been honorable to allow Ser Jaime to die in their keep- nor the second, nor the third. In the former, the lion knight had approached her and for the latter, Lyarra couldn't help that she'd fallen asleep on the library floor. Not even the first few swordsmanship lessons bothered her. Should she have done them? Probably not. But was her brother present as chaperone? Until today, yes.

'I should have left when Robb didn't arrive after the first few minutes,' the dark-haired girl admitted. But Ser Jaime had already brought out the practice swords and offered her a nifty lunge taught to him by the White Bull himself! And the Lannister was a surprisingly gifted teacher when one put a wooden blade in his hands. For all his claims that he wouldn't spar with any children, the knight had even done a few practice spars with her and the swift and graceful movements he'd displayed had stolen her breath away. 'One day, I'm going to move like that. As though the sword were nothing more than an extension of my arm and the wind a teasing friend to lead my blade to its proper target.'

Lyarra had been so enraptured that she almost didn't notice daybreak until the early servants' chatter rose in the sky. Ser Jaime had been aloof to them as he was with most else but the bastard girl had scrambled to put their supplies away and leave as quickly as she could. Her reputation with Lady Stark hung thinly enough for her to dread any news of this reaching the woman's ears.

'Ser Jaime fears no man's judgment.'

The bastard didn't know if it was for the Kingslayer title he unfairly bore or if his nature was simply to dismiss the concerns of others. A bit of both, she supposed, and almost laudable in the brazenness of it. Lyarra didn't have that sort of courage though. So it was in silent apology to the man with whom she presumed friendship that the dark-haired girl avoided the Great Hall and headed directly to the kitchens for her meal. Ser Jaime may have had the will to sit beside her but Lyarra lacked the nerve to be seen with him.

'It's not out of shame,' she reassured herself once more. 'The eldest trueborn son of a Lord Paramount may be as brazen as he pleases. The eldest bastard daughter of one needs to be more circumspect.'

Prudence, Lyarra had found over the years, properly employed alongside compliance, forbearance and cordiality meant that her reputation remained untarnished. As long as the veneer of proper ladylike behavior cloaked her, she could be free to build her life around the constraints of a lord's bastard, occasionally nudging a toe out of line but never within another's judgment. The dark-haired girl had her books and her sword and as long as she maintained that behavior which was expected of her, she would be allowed to indulge in her desires in peace.

'Maybe I can indulge another pleasure now?' She tightened her shoulder blades, feeling the telltale crack of sore muscles realigning into more comfortable positions. 'No one needs to know…'

Father was very busy entertaining the royal party. He wouldn't notice her disappearance, not for a few hours. 'And,' Lyarra reasoned, 'Lady Stark would prefer that the bastard make herself scarce.'

That sort of reasoning appealed to her and it was with a lighter heart that a fleet-footed bastard dropped from the kitchen countertop, starting a few of the servants that were cooking there. The older ones merely laughed it off, having gotten used to the Bastard of Winterfell springing up like a cheerful ghoul from the nooks and crannies and shadowy spots of the castle. Second Cook pressed an apple tart to her hand with the admonishment that he'd better not see another little wolf eating it and Lyarra promptly brought the treat to her lips, heart warming when that won her a smile.

She headed out of toasty warm kitchens to hallways that were only a measure colder due to the water from the hot springs piped through the walls. A familiar path took her past little known corridors and empty rooms, the main keep of House Stark once filled to the brim with multiple branches of kin whittled bleak now by war and winter, and to one of the side doors letting outside. When she opened them, air that she recognized as being brisk and chilly brushed past her bare arms. Lyarra didn't bother to take a cloak anyway. Her body always ran a few notches warmer than those around her.

"In my blood, there is fire," Lyarra sang softly under her breath. "Steel in my hand, a crown on my brow. Don't throw me into the pyre, a dragon will always know, how far still you go, little squire…"

Aegon's Ditty wasn't well-known in the North but there was a dusty, cracked volume of nursery rhymes that she'd gleaned it from. Perhaps one of the last in existence. Most books were written by the Citadel and the Reach had done its best to outlaw this and many other records of the Field of Fire. The melody was short so Lyarra recited it twice on her path and then once backwards just because she could. Robb and she had loudly sung the morbid lullabies to Sansa as a child and her guileless, sweet-natured baby sister had happily clapped along.

Oh, had Lady Stark's expression been precious.

Lyarra passed by the Sept, the Great Keep and the Guard Hall on her way to the Crypts. The footsteps took her past cobbled streets laid down by Edwyn the Summer King, a wall rebuilt more recently by Lord Benjen Stark of nine generations past and a row of straw-men that her father had replaced when she was only five namedays old. There were handkerchiefs tied around each one's neck now, akin to a noose, and as she passed them, her feet slowed down for they bore the colors and messy golden sigil of House Greyjoy. At least she assumed the blob of golden-hued paint to be a kraken.

'How unkind.' Theon Greyjoy would have to pass the Guard Hall every time he was escorted to the Armory to equip himself for lessons. 'This isn't befitting of a Great House.'

It wasn't befitting for grown men employed by House Stark either but Lyarra had long since consigned herself to the fact that the only sensible man in the world was her Uncle Benjen. Even Father, bless him, had a few moments where she'd question the quality of helms in the Vale.

'Why do we have to take the hostage?' Lyarra bemoaned, not for the first time as she skipped over to untangle the fabric. How would landlocked House Stark teach an Ironborn sailing anyway? Would her father build him a little boat and let him sail it around the bathtub before bed each night?

Once the offensive marks had been pulled down, she resumed her path forward, moving more hastily now for their was a steady anticipation building within her. Lyarra had practically broken into a light run when she reached the lichyard, reaching for the heavy ironwood door that kept the entrance to the crypts barred from outside eyes. It was difficult to tug it open alone- she knew she kept Robb around for a reason- but eventually, her insistent pulling had the door flung open, not a single whisper of protest escaping the well-oiled hinges. No one had heard her.

Lyarra looked furtively around herself despite this. A lie stood ready on her tongue about her desire to visit her deceased ancestors, a silent apology offered to Grandfather Rickard, Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna for reducing their legacy thusly. She'd visit them soon and bring flowers as well but now, she'd rather enter the labyrinth of tunnels built underneath the castle and reach the mineral water springs below. Father would very much not approve of this.

'I'm a bastard, I can do what I want,' the dark-haired child told herself. Followed by, 'Please don't let Father notice I'm gone.'

Since Robb wasn't here, Lyarra didn't bother to bring a torch. Her violet eyes adjusted eerily well to darkness, once even frightening the auburn-haired boy with how they glimmered in a room lacking any sort of light. He had quickly dropped that particular fear when his bastard sister took to jumping out at him through shadows, dark curls flaring out wildly and eyes glowing sinisterly.

Between her affinity for dark spaces, her lit eyes and her eerily pale skin, Lyarra liked to think that she was an object of distinct fright for any to stumble across her here. It would surely be more gratifying than her attempts at intimidation in daylight. 'Maybe I should add a cackle?'

She made a mental note to attempt it with Robb later.

The dark-haired girl merrily made her way down spiraling stone steps to the first floor where the bones of House Stark lay. The vaunted ceiling of the crypts added an airiness to the room and the handsome statues of direwolves lying at their master's feet only lightened the atmosphere. There was a hushed silence here, of secrets never spoken and stories untold, that brought gravity to that which gave her great comfort. As a child, Lyarra would sit patiently before whichever statue caught her fancy for the day, simply waiting until the stonework came to life and was ready to play with her.

There were floors before this but some killjoy of an ancestor decided to have the stairs barred from that point onward. Fortunately Robb and Lyarra hadn't been deterred by such a slight to their plans of adventure. The two had scoured every inch of this room with such apparent glee that Lady Stark had had a hushed word with her husband about children and proper influences. It was one of the few times that Lyarra could remember her stepmother ever showing concern for her but unnecessary. Their delight had come not from the proximity of corpses as the adults worried for but a weakened part of the floor that had water drip above it for decades now. The timber creaked below Lyarra's feet, an obvious sign of weakness in a realm that boasted strong woodwork and with a body as slight as her own. Robb had cheerfully jumped on that weakened spot for days, a single rope around his waist held by Lyarra, who frankly speaking, had her head buried in a book half the time.

One day the floor cracked, the spool of rope unravelled and her elder brother yipped in pain as his harness tightened swiftly around his stomach. The boy had dropped through the floor entirely, only Lyarra's burning skin against the twined straw keeping him able to look up into the lit crypts. He had been able to reach out with his hands and clamber out with no little trouble. Except for a stomach and Lyarra needing salve for her rope burns- they claimed to be trying to break in a new colt in the stables- the two had escaped without harm. Moreover, they had found a way through!

In retrospect, it was a minor miracle neither of them had gotten seriously hurt.

Ready with lanterns, ropes, wooden swords and sandwiches the next day, the two intrepid idiots with too much time on their hands snuck down to the second floor. It was made of well-built tunnels lacking in treasure but brimming with possibilities for wandering. Lady Stark had been pregnant with Bran then and Father had to march off to war, so there was no one to stop Lyarra and Robb from wandering around to their heart's content. At seven namedays old, they weren't completely reckless- an entire hay bale's worth of straw had been twined into rope to lead the way- but they had been as adventurous as was their wont. They'd made maps of miles of passageways and empty caverns thus far and still Lyarra knew that a mountain's worth of travels awaited them.

A few hidden spots had been discovered with true delight.

There was that one cavern filled with water-slicked stalactites and little brown creatures that snipped at their toes. Lyarra had brought a sketch to Maester Luwin and been told that they were called crabs.

Another cavern was only double her current height but filled to the brim with mushrooms that First Cook had very much appreciated that day. They had been given a half-dozen cakes for their gift.

Yet another cavern was almost circular, made of smoothened walls and with a small pool inside. The withered remains of a wood pallet and a rough approximation chair had made the two decide that this particular area had been inhabited once. By whom Lyarra did not know but she'd dearly love to learn.

Her favorite cavern was one of the first ones they'd found though. It delved so deeply, Robb was certain that they had reached a third level and declared this to be the Lyarra Snow level. They'd named the second one after him because Robb would only agree to jump on end on a pile of wood if their first discovery was named after him.

The Lyarra Snow level hadn't been explored in-depth but the entranceway was a stone arch inscribed faintly with what she was certain was wolves. If one traversed past this, they'd find palish yellow crystals jutting forward from the ceiling and the wall. Had one chosen to pry or chip them off and held them up to sunlight, they'd find them shimmering a delightful color, changing as they moved it around. Sansa had a necklace and bracelet forged crudely by her of these stones. Bringing a torch to this cavern would have each light reflect off of each other in a splendid display of the rainbow that was as equally painful to one's sight as it was brilliant.

The main attraction of the room though was the pool. The very, very hot hotspring that even Robb was wary of dipping a toe in. If Lyarra could live in that delightfully heated water than she was certain she would. Quickly divesting herself of her clothes, the Bastard of Winterfell gleefully ran across one of the biggest pieces of crystal, jutting out over the water as a springboard, and threw herself into the pool. Her body slipped through scalding water with ease and soon Lyarra was submerged, eyes open, into an opaque world of hazy blue that pressed against each effort-laden limb comfortingly. Any aches and pain that this morning brought, any concerns that she may have had with befriending a man such as Ser Jaime, fled away before this absolutely delicious heat.

Flipping her body underwater, Lyarra forcefully kicked her feet to propel herself downwards. Most of this pool had no gradient of color, inhospitable to plant and animal life alike. There were dots of color near the bottom though, five stones bigger than her own hands, arrayed in the sand like a clutch of eggs. As she reached the bottom, one hand reached out to brush over her favorite stone. A bold golden color that shimmered as treasure was supposed to do even within the heated pools lacking light. Her fingers fluttered over thin ridges layered atop each other before her lungs reminded her that she hadn't yet developed the ability to breathe underwater. Twisting around once again, Lyarra moved back to the surface.

As her head broke the surface of the pool and she moved to lightly tread the water instead, Lyarra decided that she would be practicing her cackle now.

x